


An Empty Bottle of Whiskey

by MyrddinDerwydd



Series: 30 Days of Dragon Age [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demon Imshael, Drinking, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Nightmares, Whiskey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:32:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd
Summary: Brigit drinks to deal with demons. Sometimes the strongest, most outgoing people aren't as put together as it seems.Writing Masterpost, by main character.





	An Empty Bottle of Whiskey

The Inquisitor was sprawled at in the darkest corner of the tavern, empty whiskey bottle in her lap and feet up on the dirty table like any common soldier, drunk and worn after a campaign. Head flung back, lips parted in exhausted sleep, Brigit’s scarlet bun was caught over the back of the chair, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it. He’d never seen her drink heavily before. It was well after midnight, and Blackwall swayed slightly as he ran a calloused hand down his face.

Maker, she scarcely looked like the noble-born daughter of Ostwick she was, save for the quality of the untucked silk blouse and shining gold sunburst in her ear. He blew out a sigh, leaning on the wall. What was he supposed to do with a drunken Herald of Andraste?

Had she come up here alone? Was the shit storm with the Templars really wearing that hard on her? She had barely spoken of what had occurred with the demon Imshael, but surely she had someone… maybe Cassandra? He snorted quietly at the thought. Stoic and devout to the core, the Seeker wouldn’t be his first choice of confidant for terrifying shit inside his head either.

The candle on Brigit’s table guttered and went out, adding its sooty scent to the ale and sweat of the Herald’s Rest. Ironic that she was actually resting here, though she scowled and shifted anxiously, gripping the empty bottle like a weapon. Guilt wormed at him, a familiar companion. He had walled himself away from her, denied her attempts to seek his company, largely because of her status as the Herald and as a Trevelyan. Damned if he wanted to screw with the Maker’s plots or get dragged through another noble’s mess. He didn’t deserve her anyway.

Wood scraped on wood as she jerked, mumbling in her sleep. Fingers flexed around the neck of the bottle, grip settling as he had seen a hundred times before, save around the hilt of a greatsword. The sight settled his mind, if nothing else. He wasn’t going to leave her to battle demons alone in a dark tavern. Pushing away from the wall, he closed the distance to her quietly and crouched by her chair. His worn, scarred knuckles were a stark contrast to the smooth curve of her neck as he gently shook her shoulder.

 _THUD._ The bottle connected hard enough with Blackwall’s raised forearm to draw a grunt as Brigit woke up swinging. Her other hand slammed into his wrist, pulling his hand free of her shoulder, and her boots scraped on the table, legs tangling with each other. She caught herself from falling by the grip on his arm and blinked blearily at him in the gloom, disoriented and breathing hard.

“It’s alright, Inquisitor. You’re safe,” he rumbled quietly, hands raised in submission. Damned if he wasn’t going to grab that bottle if she kept swinging, though. He had seen enough soldiers trapped in the throes of a nightmare to know she might. “No demons here,” he said on instinct. “Just me.” _Idiot,_ he chided himself. _As if she knows your voice in the night._

“Blackwall.” Brigit sagged in relief, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his, eyes closing again. Apparently she did know him in the dark, and he felt a traitor twice over for enjoying the sound of his name on her lips. “Demon. Nightmare.” She rocked her head from side to side in denial. “Can’t shake that shit from the fortress. Don’t know how mages do it.”

“Sorry. Templars are pushy enough without getting in your head,” he said drily.

Brigit choked out a bitter laugh and settled her feet, leaning back from him and looking around. “Damn. I fell asleep in the tavern? Josie will be…” she sighed dramatically, drunkenly, and let the whiskey bottle slide to the floor with a thunk. “...less than pleased.”  

Even in the dark she still looked a little haunted, and definitely exhausted. She was a seasoned soldier, even if one accustomed to command - not unlike himself. It took a lot to rattle someone like them. Still, he hesitated.

“Have you spoken with anyone about the demon? About what you went through?”

She didn’t meet his gaze, and that was answer enough.

“Who would you have gone to, Blackwall? Vivienne the Perfect? Cullen the Templar? Cole understands a little too well - he’s something else entirely.” He knew the pain in her voice like an old friend, the pain of memories that you hated, and knew you’d never lose.

“I don’t rightly know, to be honest.” He stood, hand extended. “Maker knows I’m far from perfect, but I’m here now… even if I wasn’t before.”

Brigit readily gripped his hand and allowed him to pull her upright. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she took his weathered hand in both of hers, smoother but still calloused.

“No gloves? That’s rare.”

“Only for you, my lady.” The smooth reply was off his tongue before he could think. Her grin was worth it though, and she kept his hand in hers as they slipped downstairs and into the bracing night air.

The empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor, discarded in favor of a friend.


End file.
